Chapter 12
Twelve
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Take an Unplanned Detour
Lizzie stood at the corner where the path to the Burtons’ cottage diverted from the lane, uncertain. She felt as though they
were dancing around the edge of something, but she didn’t know what.
“Are you all right?” Darcy asked.
She nodded, although she didn’t feel particularly confident. “How can a dead man appear out of nowhere, and no one has any
idea as to who he might be?”
“It’s possible that they truly don’t know,” he suggested, although he didn’t sound convinced himself. “Fifty years is a long
time.”
Lizzie nodded, but she wasn’t entirely convinced.
Unless the body had been placed in the flue during the time when all the household staff had fallen sick but before the Burtons had returned to work .
. . But how long did a body smell? She would put the question to Marianne Dashwood in a letter as soon as they returned to Netherfield, and hoped she would receive a quick response.
“I know you’re not about to give up,” Darcy said, nudging her arm. She looked up at him and gave him a look, and he grinned.
“Why don’t we walk into the village? We’re already halfway there. We can see if Miss Jeffries has made any progress on those
registers.”
“All right,” she agreed, “although I am not sure she’s the type to take well to being pressured.”
“I paid her fifteen shillings apiece for those registers—she should feel pressured,” Darcy grumbled, making Lizzie laugh.
It was a lovely morning for a walk—bright and cloudless but not too warm. Guy happily trotted along, although he wanted to
stop and sniff every five or six paces, which meant their progress was not quick. As they walked, Lizzie realized that in
her anger toward Darcy and her father as they’d left London, and then in the excitement over a new case, she and Darcy hadn’t
really talked in days.
“How is your sister?” she asked, causing Darcy to turn to her in surprise. “I never did ask—did you tell her about leaving
London?”
“I did,” he said. “Hopefully she’ll have gotten the letter by now.”
“And did you tell her the reason for our leaving?”
He nodded. “I don’t keep secrets from Georgie. Sometimes I may downplay certain dangers, to keep her from worrying, but . . .
I don’t lie to her. She deserves that, at least.”
“Of course,” Lizzie said. “I’m glad you told her. She’s a delightful girl. I can’t imagine how difficult this last year has been for you, being apart.”
He sighed. “Yes, but I imagine she’ll be back in London for the season—she’s old enough now to make her debut.”
Lizzie looked up at him. “She will? Is your father . . .”
Darcy’s expression was stony. Lizzie knew this expression—it was the one he wore when he was upset but trying not to show
it. Unfortunately for him, looking like a severe marble sculpture gave him away. “I’ve had word from him, yes.” Darcy’s voice
was clipped. “He’s on his way back to England. I don’t know exactly when his ship will dock but . . . soon.”
“Darcy,” Lizzie breathed. The subject of his father was a sore one. When they’d first met, the senior Mr. Darcy had been a
distant figure to her, but Lizzie had gotten the distinct impression that he did not approve of Darcy’s association with her.
Darcy had assured her he was glad enough to have another solved case in the books, and even grateful that their investigation
had proved what a scoundrel Wickham could be. Lizzie had suspected him of exaggerating but had said nothing.
When Darcy’s father had announced his prolonged business trip to the continent, Darcy had been upset—but Lizzie knew it was
less about his father’s absence and more about his insistence on sending Georgiana to the countryside with no company except
a paid companion. And she knew that his father hadn’t been pleased by how their case with Jack Mullins had turned out, although
she had hoped he’d at least recognize that their efforts had uncovered a mole in Mr. Tomlinson.
Judging by Darcy’s expression now, she doubted his father had voiced his admiration for a job well done.
“Please don’t worry,” Darcy said, which was what he always did when the subject of his father was brought up.
“You’re clearly upset. Has your father said anything about . . .” She wanted to say us but chose the safer route and finished with, “Lady Catherine?”
Darcy grimaced. “Not in as many words.”
Ah. Lizzie feared that meant he’d had plenty to say about her and their prolonged partnership, then.
“But this is a good thing,” Lizzie said, attempting to put on a brave face, though she did not in fact think that Darcy’s
father’s return portended much of anything good. “Georgiana will be back in London soon enough, and surely having her close
by will be an improvement for you both.”
He smiled a little at that. “She’s been awfully bored at Pemberley. She claims the lady’s companion is terrible company, always
complaining of a headache or finding some excuse to abandon her duties. Georgiana is hoping Father will sack her as soon as
he returns.”
“Oh dear,” Lizzie said, unable to help feeling a pang of sympathy for the lady’s companion. The position was reserved for
gentlemen’s daughters who had little money and no marriage prospects on the horizon as a way of earning a respectable income.
It did not sound like a pleasant living to Lizzie, but there weren’t exactly many respectable positions open to ladies who
must work.
Lizzie was about to further inquire about Georgiana when Darcy stopped. “Isn’t that Sally up ahead?”
It didn’t take Lizzie very long to see whom Darcy was referring to. They were approaching the outskirts of the village now,
and some distance ahead of them in the field to their right, a distant figure of a woman, tall and slender with white-blond
hair, walked toward the village.
“I believe so,” Lizzie said, shading her eyes to look out. “Do you think she’s coming from Netherfield? Why not use the lane?”
“Perhaps she knows a shortcut through the woods?” Darcy suggested.
Instinct took over, and Lizzie picked up her pace, dragging Darcy and Guy along with her. “Come on. I want to see where she
goes.”
“Lizzie! We can’t just . . .”
“Follow her? Of course we can! If she’s just going to the shops, then all right. But if she goes anywhere else or sees anyone
else, I want to know.”
“All right,” Darcy grumbled as he increased his pace to keep up with Lizzie. “But this isn’t London—there is considerably
less coverage to tail someone in a village like Meryton. You’d better start thinking up your cover story should we get caught.”
“When have I ever not had a cover story prepared?”
Darcy muttered something incoherent but followed.
The path Sally was on appeared to run somewhat parallel to the lane, although it was separated by some distance and the length of a stone wall.
Lizzie kept an eye on Sally as she approached the edge of the village, but the other young lady’s path did not take her to the high street—instead, she skirted around a row of gardens, heading to the north side of the village.
“Interesting,” Lizzie said. “So she’s not running an errand for the household. ”
“We don’t know that for certain—she’s just not going straight into the village,” Darcy corrected. “Let’s let her get ahead
a bit and then follow.”
Lizzie fidgeted but waited until Sally was a good distance away and in danger of slipping out of sight before she and Darcy
left the lane and strode through the long grass of the hayfield that separated them from the worn footpath Sally took, Guy
trailing them. Right before it entered the village proper, it branched off, running alongside the back of many of the cottages
and buildings. That was the direction where Sally had disappeared. “I can’t see her anymore,” Lizzie said in a low tone.
“She can’t have gone too far. Come on.” Darcy took her arm, and they picked up the pace. The path curved to the left, leading
to the north side of the village before meeting the high street as it led out of the village. Lizzie and Darcy halted, looking
around for Sally.
“She could be anywhere,” Lizzie murmured. On this end of the village were mostly cottages, a farrier, and what appeared to
be a smithy. There were some people out and about, and a few men at work, but no sign of the tall, blond young woman they’d
been tailing. Disappointment plummeted in Lizzie’s stomach.
“There,” Darcy said suddenly, looking to the right. “The churchyard.”
Lizzie spotted a flash of white-blond hair as it disappeared around the corner of the church. Wordlessly, Lizzie and Darcy
took off for the church, briskly but not so quickly as to draw attention. Guy kept up beside them, his small pink tongue hanging
out as he panted lightly. The poor dog would deserve a bowl of water and a nap after this.
As they approached, the front of the church faced them, with the entrance to the vicarage on the right. To the left was a
gate to the stone fence that enclosed the churchyard, Sally’s apparent destination. Darcy pulled Lizzie to the right, giving
the vicarage entrance a wide berth to avoid being spotted by Mr. Thomas, and they slunk along the tree line toward the churchyard,
where a good number of headstones in varying sizes and conditions stood. They ducked low, making certain to keep out of sight
behind the stone wall.
Sally stood near a modest stone, looking down silently. Lizzie and Darcy didn’t dare get closer. As the seconds passed into
minutes, Lizzie’s racing pulse slowed, and she began to feel a bit ridiculous. They had trailed Sally on nothing more than
a hunch and followed her to a churchyard, where she appeared to be paying her respects. Perhaps to her mother, Amy? It felt
intrusive, watching what was surely a private moment. She bit her lip and glanced at Darcy, who also looked chagrined.
“Perhaps we should go,” Lizzie whispered.